Alfonso sighs and then looks at me. “Mi dispiace,” he says.
“He’s sorry,” Ugo translates, “but this would have happened no matter what.”
“What would have happened?” I ask. I hate not knowing what the fuck is going on.
“I’ll carry you part of the way,” he says.
“No,” I say again, with much more force and conviction than this morning when I’d told him that I wouldn’t be fucking him. I’d rather fuck him than do what he’s about to suggest.
“We can take all the time you need,” Ugo says.
“No,” I whine. “I fucking hate it here.”
